


At The End of the Line

by sorcererinslytherin



Series: Ashes and Embers: Days in the Lives of the FAHC [6]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 07:05:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17524115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorcererinslytherin/pseuds/sorcererinslytherin
Summary: It's what you do in your last seconds that defines who you are.Ryan Haywood will not let his boys die.Even if that means he won't live himself.Part of my crosspost from tumblr. Read more in my Ashes and Embers series.





	At The End of the Line

**Author's Note:**

> I'm cross-posting my favorite fics from tumblr over here to AO3. They will all be posted individually but collected in a series titled "Ashes and Embers." Please feel free to check out all of them and give me a follow over on tumblr if you like them!
> 
> Hope you're enjoying these! <3

There’s a few times in one’s life when you’re certain you’re going to die. It’s how you act in those moments that defines who you are as a person. Shoved up against the wall and watching the world go orange and red as yet another bomb blows up somewhere to the left, Ryan realizes that this is one of those moments. Probably the last one he’d ever have.

Gripping the tear in his side with rough, gunpowder-stained fingers, he hoists himself up from where he had fallen. The world spins as he forces himself upright. The concussive blast from the shock-wave that had sent him backwards into the wall of the building left him reeling – he couldn’t hear out of his left ear. A brief probing touch of his finger reveals what he doesn’t want to consider: blood. Trickling down his cheek, it’s unlikely he’ll ever regain hearing in that ear again.

It didn’t seem like it was going to matter. As the bombs continue to shake their tiny part of Los Santos, he knows that unless he does something soon, all his boys will be dead. He turns, trying to force his vision to stop blurring. He knows he’s seeing two of everything, but he guesses he’d rather see two Michael’s than no Michael’s.

He eventually finds his young firecracker. Michael’s lost his glasses in the fight and is squinting in his attempt to see. One arm is limp and useless, hanging by his side at an awkward angle. Broken and out of it’s socket - it needs immediate medical attention and must hurt like one couldn’t believe. Blood drips from Michael’s nose, smearing across his chin, but he doggedly continues on in a losing battle. He’ll run out of ammo soon - they’re trapped, penned in by the wave of LSPD and hired SWAT team members who press forward unhindered.

They’re shooting to kill. They even got grenades. Explosives. They don’t care about damage to the city anymore - at some point the police had just snapped. They wanted the Fakes dead, whatever the cost.

And at this point, as Ryan watched through eyes besieged by double vision and a head pounding its own death dirge in his skull, he knows there’s no getting out of this without death. Gavin is out cold behind a rock, his golden glasses splintered and face bloodied from the blast. He had been trying to run to get behind Ryan as his golden gun had emptied his final clip when the blast went off. Ryan hadn’t seen how far Gavin flew, but the landing must have been nasty. One leg was somewhat trapped under rubble. 

Jack and Geoff were nowhere to be seen. Ryan just had to hope they were alive. He knew Geoff would never leave Jack and visa versa. They would be together until the end - hopefully the end hadn’t yet come. He imagines they’re probably trapped somewhere. Possibly unconscious, more than likely continuing their last stand like Michael is doing.

Jeremy - little Jeremy, their newest addition and the one the most fresh-faced and least acceptable to die here with them - is hobbled by a bullet hole in the thigh. It looks pretty nasty from what Ryan could try to make out. Blood stains his leg and he can hardly put weight on it. Ryan watches as Michael tries to cover him and the man stumbles, leaning against detritus from the blast. Their Kevlar vests will only do them so much more luck.

They are going to die here unless Ryan does something.

Looking down, Ryan takes account of what he has left. The pickings are slim. He lost his gun in the blast. He has a bullet hole in his side and … one more grenade in his pouch.  
Feeling the blood drip down his side, he knows he isn’t going to last much longer. The idea, when it springs into his head, seems feasible. To get inside their death courtyard, the police are funneled into one small section. If he goes in, drops the bomb, and runs…

…the police would be brutally devastated and the others could have a chance of getting out. B-Team would be able to extract them. They could survive. 

Hefting the grenade in his hand, Ryan takes a few steps forward. Then another. Then three or four more.

By the time the police realize how close he is, they hardly have time to relax. He must look a sight, looming out of the dust in the air, brick dust in his hair and face-paint mussed with blood and sweat and his stupid smile.

He pulls the pin on the grenade and tosses it into the first few rows of cops. They frantically scrabble for it, but what can they do? He turns and runs as best he can, but he knows deep down in his heart he can’t make it away in time. A few gunshots slam into his Kevlar, driving him down. He falls behind a wall of rubble just as the world turns white and red and the heat flashes over him.

It all goes dark.

–

…

…  
Faint, muffled voices. “…and then he just dropped the fucking grenade and ran. There was nothin’ I could fuckin’ do. Stupid fuckin’ dumbass idiot.” 

“Mong.” The voice was clogged, as if it was full of tears. Ryan blinks and takes a gasp of clean air, not tainted by blood and sweat and dust. His eyes - crusty - open. The pain is remarkable, but he is distracted by what his eyes see.

His boys sit, watching him. All of them, bandaged and stitched and braced, but alive. 

He must make a noise, for they all turn and start chorusing their excitement that he’s awake, shrieking for Caleb and screaming that he’s alive, _holy fuck, rYAN…_

He watches with a faint smile on his face. He survived. Imagine that.

He owed someone up there a thank you. Thank you for keeping them safe.


End file.
